


Distraction From Distraction

by philalethia



Series: Spoiled Kitty 'Verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Collars, Dom/sub, Fingerfucking, M/M, Pet Play, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sherlock is a Brat, Spanking, Tails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 01:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3230918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is bored and wants John’s attention. So he dresses in a collar and a tail plug and sets out to be a distraction. Yet another pet play story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distraction From Distraction

The best part of playing as John’s pet, at least as far as Sherlock was concerned, was the influence it gave him over John’s actions.

He could have, for instance, sulked over the utter dearth of interesting cases and John’s insistence on _watching telly_ whilst Sherlock wasted away from boredom.

Or he could have dressed in nothing but his collar, which was plum-coloured with a large silver bell, and his black fluffy tail plug and joined John on the sofa—which was precisely what he did.

John stopped paying attention to the television quite quickly after that.

“Sherlock,” he kept saying, shoving uselessly at Sherlock’s shoulders. “ _Sherlock_. You’re being a very naughty kitty tonight.”

As deterrents went, it was an exceedingly poor one. John might’ve been chastising him now, but Sherlock knew from experience that it would eventually turn to effusive praise. And then he would be stroked and kissed and cooed at, called everything from “gorgeous” to “brilliant,” and then stroked and kissed and cooed at some more.

Besides, Sherlock was being more puppy-like than kitten-like now: half in John’s lap and licking his cheek, his chin, his jaw, even his throat, which made John’s breath catch and his fingers twitch. But if John wanted to see him as a cat tonight, then Sherlock supposed he would be a cat.

So he traded his enthusiastic licking for gentle nuzzling and head-butting, which made John sigh—a contented sigh, as tender and welcome as an answering nuzzle—and stop trying to shove Sherlock off.

“You berk. I’ve been looking forward to watching this, you know.”

As though Sherlock cared. He dipped his head and rubbed his cheek against the shoulder of John’s jumper. So soft and fuzzy, pillowy. He did it again, then again. The bell on his collar jingled with every movement—the sound was so ingrained in his subconscious that his cock began immediately to thicken. Moaning, he clenched around the plug in his bottom, which was so slick and lube-soaked (John always insisted on it, wouldn’t touch Sherlock if he didn’t have lubricant literally dribbling from him) that it slid in deeper.

John curled his arms round Sherlock’s back, one hand stroking down his spine. “My sweet, needy kitty,” he murmured.

_Oh_ , Sherlock thought. _Oh yes_. He wanted so badly to be sweet. John positively doted on him when he was sweet. He scooted backwards, off John’s lap, so he could nuzzle John’s belly and then his groin, dragging his nose up and down the bulge in John’s jeans—his prick wasn’t hard, not yet, but Sherlock could fix that easily. Just a few moments longer, and John would undo his zip and let Sherlock lick—

“Sherlock! What did I say?”

_Slap!_

Sherlock jumped at the sound, confused, and didn’t realise until John went tense and began to rub soothingly at his bum what had happened: Sherlock had been spanked.

“Sorry,” John said, horrified. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I just meant that to be a little thump. Are you all right? Christ, I am so so sorry.”

It _had_ been a little thump, really. Sherlock had barely even felt it. The noise of bare skin striking bare skin at that angle, with John’s palm slightly cupped, had simply made it sound worse than it had been.

But didn’t it put quite an interesting idea in Sherlock’s head?

They’d never dabbled in that sort of thing before. Light pain, play discipline. It had never sounded appealing. Before now, obviously. Now it sounded intriguing. How effusive would John’s praise be if Sherlock could withstand a good spanking? If he were pink-arsed and squirming, in need of coddling? Or if Sherlock shammed a few tears, and afterwards hissed and winced every time he sat?

John would spoil him shamelessly. Almost certainly he would insist on rubbing salve on Sherlock’s bottom, during which Sherlock could easily entice John into spreading his arse cheeks wide and eating his hole until it was so wet and loose that John’s tongue could slip inside. Hours upon hours of rimming, until John’s jaw was sore and Sherlock was sobbing and shaking and humping the bed like the good boy that John would tell him he was.

_Oh_ , he thought, _yes._

Sherlock draped himself face-down across John’s legs, positioning his arse right over John’s lap and tipping it up: practically an engraved invitation. Then, when John only looked puzzled, as though Sherlock couldn’t be asking for what John thought he was, he broke his silent pet persona to say, “Please?”

“Seriously?” said John. “You want me to spank you?”

Sherlock wriggled his bum, making his tail wag and his collar jingle. He knew he made a tempting sight when he was plugged and collared; John had told him so many, many times.

John’s lip quirked up into a half-smile, and he stroked down Sherlock’s spine again, making Sherlock shiver. “Fine. But only for a bit, and I’m not hitting you hard. All right?

It was. Sherlock wiggled his bottom again, then sucked in a sharp breath when John promptly smacked it—lightly, barely a tap on his right arse cheek, but just like before, it was startling. He jumped on instinct.

“Still okay?” John asked. When Sherlock nodded, John reached for the remote control, which was balanced on the sofa arm, and muted the television.

Sherlock had forgotten about that, wasn’t even paying attention to it any longer—nor was John, clearly. Smugness rolled through him like a gulp of warm tea, which lingered until John spanked him again—towards the middle of his arse this time, right over his tail, forcing the plug even deeper. He let out a cry, and John stroked his hair with his free hand.

“Sweet boy. You like that?”

John laid another light slap in the centre of Sherlock’s bottom, jostling the plug again. It felt so dirty, so good. The smacking sound, the sensation of stainless steel sliding wetly in his hole, opening him up. Not to mention his cock, trapped beneath him, being driven into John’s thighs—the hint of pressure and friction (albeit John’s jeans were a bit rougher than he would have preferred).

Sherlock reached behind and spread his cheeks, so that John’s next smack landed on the base of the tail directly. He could _hear_ it then, the slick squish as the plug sank further into his arsehole. He moaned, low and rumbly, purr-like, and tried to push back into John’s hand.

John snorted. “Look at you. You don’t want to be spanked. You want to be fucked. You gorgeous, greedy boy. Here.” He shooed away Sherlock’s hands and put one of his own against the tail’s base. He twisted the plug deeper and then backed off, letting it slide out slightly. “How’s that?”

_Good_ , Sherlock thought, squirming, feeling all the ways the plug could stretch his tight little hole and how deep it could go. _Oh, John, please._ He wanted to lie across John’s lap while John toyed with his arsehole and played with his hair and told him what a pretty greedy kitten he was, so clever, so perfect—everything that John had ever wanted.

John fucked him with the toy for maybe a minute, slow and messy, until Sherlock felt lubricant dripping out and down his bollocks. Then, abruptly, John was humming thoughtfully and easing the tail from Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock whined in protest and tried to tighten his muscles, keep the plug where it was, but it slipped free with a squelch anyway.

“Shush,” said John. “You want to be a good kitty, don’t you? I’ll give it back in a bit, I promise. Just need to get my hands slick. Lift up a little. We don’t want your prick to get chafed, do we?”

Sherlock cared somewhat less about chafing than he did about being John’s good kitty at the moment, but the results were the same: he hefted up onto his knees and elbows and tried not to think about how strange and empty he felt without his tail.

“Good. That’s so good, Sherlock. You can keep your head down if you want. As long as you keep this perfect arse up for me.” Then there was a hand on Sherlock’s bottom, a pair of fingers circling his hole. “Oh. You got yourself so wet. Good boy. So well-behaved.”

Sherlock shuddered in pleasure and let out a moan that pitched louder when John’s fingers slipped inside. One of the benefits of being buggered by a doctor—John could find and manipulate Sherlock’s prostate as effortlessly as he could work a gun. In minutes, Sherlock’s hard cock was red and twitching, and his chest was heaving, breaths coming and leaving him in gasping sobs.

He loved this. Being John’s kitty, bent over John’s lap and fingered. His throbbing cock, his slick and open hole, John’s knuckles catching on the rim as they pushed in and out. The phantom sensation of something trailing, featherlight, across the head of his prick every time John’s fingertips stroked over his prostate. The ringing bell on his collar, the squeaking leather cushion beneath his hands.

“Good, good kitty,” John was murmuring, stroking Sherlock’s face with his free hand. Whimpering, Sherlock raised his chin and nuzzled John’s palm. “Oh, you lovely thing. My brilliant, perfect pet.” A firm, slow drag of his fingertips over Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock’s whole body shook as he whined, feeling his prick pulse and leak a fat dribble of precome. “That’s it. Make a mess of my jeans. Now everyone who looks at me will know what a needy kitty I’ve got.”

_Yes_ , Sherlock thought. _Oh god, yes, please_. He could hardly keep still. He wanted to writhe and squirm, fuck himself on John’s fingers or rub his prick against something, nuzzle John’s hand or lick at the webbing between John’s fingers.

“All right,” John said. “That’ll do. Now you can have your tail back.”

The emptiness this time when John removed his fingers was worse because Sherlock could _feel_ the echo of them. His hole gaped a little; the muscles tried to tighten around nothing. But it was barely a second before he was being filled with the plug again. Not as warm, not as alive as John’s fingers, and the shape (straight and tapered at the end) meant it didn’t massage his prostate, but still it was an acceptable substitute. Sherlock clenched around it and rolled his hips, tried to make it fuck him, and groaned in disappointment when it only bobbed from one angle to another.

With a soothing murmur, John covered the base of the tail with his hand, holding it in place so that Sherlock could thrust back against it. At the same time, he reached beneath Sherlock’s hips with his other hand and grasped Sherlock’s cock. His grip was lube-slick and tight, a nice hot channel for Sherlock to fuck.

“There,” John said, his tone warm and approving as Sherlock whimpered and shivered and began to rut frantically between the plug and John’s hand. “How’s that?”

It was glorious. His arse so wet and full, John’s grasp so hot and firm. The tail swung behind him like a pendulum, brushing his arse cheeks and the backs of his thighs. His collar jingled ceaselessly, loud enough that Sherlock could hardly even hear his own breathless moans.

_Please_ , he thought. _Please don’t stop. I need it. Please._

As though he’d heard Sherlock’s pleas, John’s hand left his bottom abruptly. But Sherlock’s cry, low and positively tortured, turned quickly to a yelp when the hand crashed down again, landing a light blow on Sherlock’s arse right over the plug. Just like before, it forced the toy deeper, and this time it also drove his cock sharply into John’s grip.

“Oh god,” Sherlock muttered, utterly un-cat-like, although John only chuckled. “Oh, yes.” He turned up his arse even more: a plea for another swat.

“Christ, I adore you,” said John, his voice thick. “You gorgeous thing, taking everything I give you. Perfect boy.”

Sherlock moaned in delight and might’ve preened, but John spanked him again and this time kept his palm over the plug, pushing it in as far as it would go. His other hand began to stroke Sherlock’s cock, the pace so smooth and quick that Sherlock’s toes curled and he slumped flat on his face, clawing the sofa cushion and muffling his cries in the leather. It was so good, John’s hands so strong and slippery, rubbing the sensitive tip on every upstroke. Sherlock’s testicles, so heavy and full, aching, began to draw up; his prick began to dribble more heavily.

“Beautiful boy,” John cooed. “Is my precious kitty going to come for me? That’s it, Sherlock. Be a good boy and show me how gorgeous you are when you come.”

‘Show me,’ Sherlock knew, wasn’t really intended to be literal, but he wanted to be good—he wanted to be _impressive_. So he lifted his head slightly, tried at least to give John a view of his profile—his sweaty and no doubt flushed face, his dishevelled hair—as he gasped and sobbed and made a mess of John’s jeans.

John stroked him through it, murmuring, “Good boy. Good, good boy,” in a tender undertone. Then afterwards, when Sherlock was twitching and panting through the aftershocks, he ran his hand back and forth over the downwards dip in Sherlock’s spine and coaxed him into straightening his legs, scooting back, and lying flat with his head on John’s thigh, his collarbone mashed up against his own cooling come. The smell of it, sharp and tangy, mixed wonderfully with the musky scent of John’s arousal.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and manoeuvred himself so he could nuzzle at John’s crotch, where his hard cock was tenting his jeans and practically begging for Sherlock’s mouth. But when he tried to undo John’s zip, John tsked and stopped him.

“Not now,” he said sternly. “Right now, I want to watch the end of this programme, and I want you to lie still and let me. Can you do that? I know you’re bored and tetchy today, but can you be a good little kitty for me right now?”

And although Sherlock pouted, he left off his nuzzling and pawing and simply rested his cheek over the bulging denim. The smell was stronger here, and John’s prick pulsed weakly beneath him.

Yes, Sherlock decided, as John reached for the remote and unmuted the television. He supposed he could be good for now.


End file.
